Cara O'Brien and the Talking Lynx
by justcallmeleelee
Summary: "Cara O'Brien always knew she was different. She didn't realize just how different until she received a letter." A muggleborn witch in Canada attends her first year at the Magical Institute of Canada. NextGenOC; canon characters mentioned. SEEKING BETA
1. PREFACE: The Marauders As We Know Them

_In Memoriam: Jonathan Brett, June 1994-May 2012_

**CARA O'BRIEN AND THE TALKING LYNX**

_An OC NextGen Fic  
><em>

_Written by LeeRowan (justcallmelee)_

_Are you in earnest? Seize this very minute! Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. Only engage, and then the mind grows heated. Begin, and then the work will be completed. - Jean Anouilh_

_Imagination is the true magic carpet. - Norman Vincent Peale  
><em>

__The Harry Potter universe is © J. K. Rowling [and publisher(s)]. LeeRowan is not making profit from this work and does not intend to. Ei* takes credit only for names and places not mentioned in Harry Potter or Pottermore.

Note: LeeRowan currently seeks a beta reader. Once a beta is acquired, further chapters will be updated on a regular schedule (yet to be determined).

LeeRowan thanks anyone reading this story and would like feedback but does not require it. If you have any questions, you can contact LeeRowan through eir website, which is listed on eir profile, or through the 'review' function of FFn, or through the 'PM' function of FFn.

* * *

><p><strong><em>PREFACE: THE MARAUDERS AS WE KNOW THEM<em>**

_Daily Prophet_ headlines: November 1st, 1981.

**_WIZARDING WORLD FREED: HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED DEAD!_**

**_HARRY POTTER: THE BOY WHO LIVED!  
><em>**

**__**_Daily Prophet _headlines: November 3rd, 1981

**_SIRIUS BLACK IN AZKABAN!_**

**_PETER PETTIGREW AWARDED POST-MORTEM ORDER OF MERLIN!  
><em>**

**_LESTRANGES CAPTURED!  
><em>**

Peter Pettigrew, 1993:

"_Sirius, Sirius, what could I have done? The Dark Lord… you have no idea… he has weapons you can't imagine…. I was scared, Sirius, I was never brave like you and Remus and James. I never meant it to happen…. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named forced me — He — he was taking over everywhere! Wh — what was there to be gained by refusing him?_"

**__**_Daily Prophet _headlines: Summer 1995

**_HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED RETURNS!_**

**_SIRIUS BLACK: VINDICATED AFTER DEATH!  
><em>**

**_HARRY POTTER: THE CHOSEN ONE  
><em>**

**_PETER PETTIGREW'S ORDER OF MERLIN REVOKED!  
><em>**

We all know the story of the Marauders, how Peter Pettigrew betrayed James and Lily, how Sirius Black went after him desperate for revenge. But we never knew why. Why did Pettigrew betray his best friends? And years later, why did Bertha Jorkins follow him willingly into the forest in Albania?


	2. ONE: In Which Cara Is Different

_In Memoriam: Jonathan Brett, June 1994-May 2012_

**CARA O'BRIEN AND THE TALKING LYNX**

_An OC NextGen Fic  
><em>

_Written by LeeRowan (justcallmelee)_

_Are you in earnest? Seize this very minute! Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. Only engage, and then the mind grows heated. Begin, and then the work will be completed. - Jean Anouilh_

_Imagination is the true magic carpet. - Norman Vincent Peale  
><em>

The Harry Potter universe is © J. K. Rowling [and publisher(s)]. LeeRowan is not making profit from this work and does not intend to. Ei* takes credit only for names and places not mentioned in Harry Potter or Pottermore.

Note: LeeRowan currently seeks a beta reader. Once a beta is acquired, early chapters will be reposted with corrections, and further chapters will be updated on a regular schedule (yet to be determined).

LeeRowan thanks anyone reading this story and would like feedback but does not require it. If you have any questions, you can contact LeeRowan through eir website, which is listed on eir profile, or through the 'review' function of FFn, or through the 'PM' function of FFn.

ANY AND ALL ADDRESSES MENTIONED IN THIS STORY ARE MADE UP. Do not go to those addresses and ask for the people mentioned, because if they do exist, it is mere coincidence.

* * *

><p><strong><em>ONE: IN WHICH CARA IS DIFFERENT<br>_**

Cara had always known she was different. She had always been smaller and scrawnier than her brothers, and she had mousy hair that looked grey in the wrong light, and pale skin that did not burn easily. Her brothers were robust and strong, with fiery hair or, in Jonny's case, black hair. They had blue or green eyes—she had hazel-brown eyes. She had slender facial features that had the potential to be mildly pretty and a pointy nose and chin. They had ruggedly handsome square faces with heavy eyebrows and wide cheekbones. She had a small mouth and thin, pale lips; they had wide, smiling mouths and lips that any heterosexual girl (except relatives, of course) would consider kissable.

She had always known she was different, and she was correct. One specific difference was her intellect: she was smarter and deduced things more quickly than the other children. And she remembered everything.

Almost everything.

"Mother," she asked one day, when she was eight. Her parents both had the day off, a rare thing, and were sitting at the kitchen table, contemplating the news playing from the kitchen TV, the two newspapers on the table, and the radio broadcast from the kitchen stereo. "Why am I different?"

Her mother gave her father a look, then she reached across the table and covered Cara's hands with both of her own. "Cara, sweetie, you know your father and I both love you very much, right?"

Cara frowned: her mother always said that before saying something that would have a great impact on her life—usually a bad one. But she nodded anyways, trying to hide the tremble in her lips. "Uh-huh."

"The truth is…" her father started, then hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. Her parents shared another look.

"We're not your birth parents," her mother said, and her world was forever changed. "We're your parents in every other sense of the word, and you're still our baby; we still love you very much," her mother hastened to add.

"Who're my birth parents, then?" Cara asked.

"We don't know," her father answered, and scooted his chair over next to hers so he could hug her. "We've tried to find out…for years. But we don't know. It's as if you just appeared out of nowhere in the foster care system and landed in our laps."

Her mother smiled at her. "Our little miracle," she added.

Cara let herself be hugged by both of them, and even hugged them back. Then she left the kitchen and went to her room, the smallest—she liked to think of it as the coziest—on the third floor. She lay down on her bed facing the ceiling decorated with glow-in-the-dark stars and thought.

After a while, she pulled out her diary and wrote a little bit with her left hand in one page and then flipped it over and wrote a little bit with her right hand on another page. This was to protect her secrets from her nosy brothers, who she was sure came into her room and looked for things to hold over her whenever she wasn't in it. They had attempted blackmail in order to prevent her from telling on them multiple times before.

Then she locked it, hid the key under her pillow and the diary under her dresser, and pulled out her favorite book to re-read.

Cara's parents—she had decided to call them that, instead of 'adopted parents,' because her birth parents weren't _really_ her parents at all—were rich. They had not come from money; Henry came from the slums in Dublin, and Rose came from the streets of London. But both of them had worked hard, saved up money, and moved to Vancouver, where they started anew. They met in an evening college class. After both of them graduated in the top ten percent of their class with a BA and a Master's in business, they collaborated and started a business investing in real estate. They married within the year, and Jonny, Tyler, and Mac came staggered over a five-year period. Two years after Mac was born and they moved into the old Victorian house, they adopted Cara.

All of this Cara knew, both from overheard conversations that she always remembered and from deductions logically made from aforesaid conversations.

Jonny was the oldest, six years older than Cara. He had black hair and strong, rugged features that could have been handsome but for the silly grin he always wore. He had bright green eyes full of mischief—and mischievous he was. Jonny loved pulling pranks, telling jokes, and getting into trouble. He never really did anything too terrible, and when he did do something that he knew was over the limit, he accepted his responsibility and punishment without complaint. This meant that his teachers were exasperated with him but still loved him.

Tyler was four years older than Cara and hero-worshiped his older brother. He would do anything Jonny told him to, something Jonny exploited often. They were an odd combination, freckle-faced, red-haired, blue-eyed Tyler with tanned, black-haired Jonny, but they fit well together. More than he loved his brother, however, Tyler loved animals. And from the undeveloped land beyond their property came plenty of wild animals that he wanted to keep as pets, everything from frogs to snakes to injured rabbits. Once, he brought home a curious raccoon. He was in terrible trouble for that one.

Mac was only two years older than Cara, which meant he was often excluded from playing with their older brothers and delegated to playing with Cara—until he turned ten, at which time he decided girls were interesting and refused to play with her anymore, for fear of seeming uncool to the girls in his grade at school. Even so, they had a close relationship, and if she had nightmares it would be his room she came to for comfort. Mac had bright red hair, even more so than Tyler's, and pale skin that looked like it should be freckled but wasn't. He preferred pitching in baseball to playing football with Jonny and Tyler, even if only Cara, a terrible catcher, played with him. He had the same green eyes as Jonny, and it was easy to see that the three brothers were related.

All of her brothers were protective of her, though they knew she wasn't really their sister and pretended they didn't care when their friends were around. But if anyone said anything mean to her, her brothers—one of them, usually Jonny, or all three of them—would corner the bully and force him or her to recant. She was annoyed and embarrassed by this but every time it happened, she loved them a little more, and forgave them every bad thing they said to her.

Around the time Cara turned eight, strange things began happening whenever she got angry. Once, she even started a fire in a chimney that hadn't been swept out for at least fifty years. They couldn't get the smell of burned bird out of that wing of the house for months. Another time, a group of girls cornered her in a school washroom and right when they were about to start in on her, the sink right behind them exploded, spraying water over them all.

Things came to a head when she went for a walk in the still-undeveloped land bordering their property and all the animals she encountered followed her home: three squirrels, a doe and her fawn, a badger, a grey fox, an owl, and a lynx. She was able to shoo all the animals except for the lynx away when she got back to the house.

"Go away," she told the lynx. "Why are you following me?"

He—somehow, instinctively, she knew the lynx was male—purred and rubbed against her legs. _You are mine._ He looked up at her and one look into his pale blue eyes was enough to melt her heart.

"Okay, but…don't let anyone see you," she whispered, glancing around. None of the neighbors were outside, but that didn't mean she was safe. With another furtive look around, she opened the door and let herself in. "Come on, then."

He blinked at her. _I'll stay out here, thanks. No cages for me._ He spoke into her thoughts, not with words, but with images that got his meaning across.

"Okay. Just…don't let anyone see you," she said again. A flicker of impatience slipped between them before he reined in his temper.

_I know. You are mine. That won't change._

"What's your name?" she asked, curious.

_What's yours?_

"I asked you first," she reminded him, but answered him anyways. "Cara. Cara O'Brien."

He cocked his head to one side. _That's not right. O'Brien is not your name. I am Teripper._ He made a soft chirping sound and faded into the shadows along the side of the house as the mailman came up to the door, leaving her to puzzle over what he meant.

"Here, Miss Cara," the elderly mailman said kindly. "There's a letter for you, today. Looks all official." The letter was on top of a small pile of junk mail and Jonny's monthly sports magazine subscription. She took it inside, Teripper temporarily forgotten.

She left the rest of the mail on the kitchen table and went up to her room. She got out her Swiss pocketknife—a birthday gift from Jonny the year before, who had meant to be helpful—and sat on her bed to open the letter.

The outside of the envelope read:

_Ms. C. O'Brien_

_The Small Room on the Third Floor_

_2230 142nd Ave_

_North Vancouver_

There was no return address. The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in emerald-green ink. In place of a stamp was a private business stamp exemption sticker.

She turned the envelope over to open it and saw a blue wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a hippogriff, a unicorn, and what looked like a demon horse surrounding the decorative letters MIC.

She opened the seal, pulled out the letter and read:

The Magical Institute of Canada

Headmistress: Charlie Dumas

(_Order of Merlin, First Class, Sorc., Chf. Magician,_

_Bronze Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

Dear Ms. O'Brien,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at The Magical Institute of Canada.

Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. As a Muggleborn, you have been accepted for a full tuition, books, and equipment scholarship. Please see Gringotts Canada, the Vancouver branch, to access the scholarship money.

Term begins on September 7th. We await your owl by no later than August 5th.

Yours sincerely,

Harlequin Tate,

_Deputy Headmaster_

A second page, also titled _The Magical Institute of Canada_, contained a list of uniforms, course books, and equipment.

UNIFORM

First-year students will require:

Three sets of plain work robes (black)One plain pointed hat (black) for day wearOne pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)

Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags

COURSE BOOKS

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

_The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)_ by Miranda Goshawk

_An Updated History of Magic, Abridged_ by H.J. Granger-Weasley

_Magical Theory_ by Adalbert Waffling

_A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration_ by Emeric Switch

_A Compendium for Herbology _by Neville Longbottom

_Magical Drafts and Potions_ by Arsenius Jigger

_Fantastic Beasts: North America and Beyond!_ by Corander O'Shanahan.

_The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection _by Quentin Trimble

_Introduction to Latin and Related Languages_ by T. H. Boot

_Basic Botany: Canadian Edition_ by Samuel Reavers

OTHER EQUIPMENT

1 wand

1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)

1 set glass or crystal phials

1 telescope

1 set brass scales

Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad

**PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS**

Cara stared at the page for some time, re-read it, and then re-read the first page again. _A full scholarship…which will cover tuition, books, and equipment. How did I qualify? Did mother and father apply for me? I certainly didn't apply for this myself._

_Oh, I can take a cat_, she noted, after yet another read-through of both pages. She wondered if the lynx—_Teripper_, she reminded herself—would want to go, and if he counted as a 'cat' in the eyes of the school. _He _is_ a feline._

She put the letter and list of equipment back in the envelope, then put it under her pillow. She would give it to her parents to look at when they got home from work.

Cara knew, instinctively, that it was not some sort of hoax. She knew that magic must be responsible for the strange things that had been happening—it was the only possible explanation; logic ruled out any other possibility. The only question on her mind was whether or not she would be allowed to go, for she had already fallen in love with the idea of magic.


	3. TWO: In Which Cara Is Curious

_In Memoriam: Jonathan Brett, June 1994-May 2012_

**CARA O'BRIEN AND THE TALKING LYNX**

_An OC NextGen Fic  
><em>

_Written by LeeRowan (justcallmelee)_

_Are you in earnest? Seize this very minute! Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. Only engage, and then the mind grows heated. Begin, and then the work will be completed. - Jean Anouilh_

_Imagination is the true magic carpet. - Norman Vincent Peale  
><em>

The Harry Potter universe is © J. K. Rowling [and publisher(s)]. LeeRowan is not making profit from this work and does not intend to. Ei* takes credit only for names and places not mentioned in Harry Potter or Pottermore.

Note: LeeRowan currently seeks a beta reader. Once a beta is acquired, early chapters will be reposted with corrections, and further chapters will be updated on a regular schedule (yet to be determined).

LeeRowan thanks anyone reading this story and would like feedback but does not require it. If you have any questions, you can contact LeeRowan through eir website, which is listed on eir profile, or through the 'review' function of FFn, or through the 'PM' function of FFn.

ANY AND ALL ADDRESSES MENTIONED IN THIS STORY ARE MADE UP. Do not go to those addresses and ask for the people mentioned, because if they do exist, it is mere coincidence.

* * *

><p><strong><em>TWO: IN WHICH CARA IS CURIOUS<br>_**

Cara took the letter immediately to her parents when they got home, not even waiting until after the evening meal. Her mother read it first, while her father put their briefcases away in their respective offices, and then her father read it while her mother took off his tie and put that as well as their jackets away in their closet.

"Full scholarship…tuition, books, and equipment all paid for? That's a pretty good deal," her father observed. "But…_magical_ institute?"

"It's real," Cara insisted. "I know it is. All those weird things happening around me—it's the only logical explanation."

"Are you sure you want to do this? And what do they mean, 'we await your owl?'" her mother asked. "If you go, you'll be away from home. You've never been away from home for longer than a week before, and that was with us when we—"

"—vacationed in Greece. I know, mother. But I really want to do this," Cara pleaded. "Please? I can always come home if I don't like it. But please may I go?"

"Go where?" Jonny asked, popping into the kitchen. "Hey, mother, when's dinner? I'm hungry."

Their mother stood and gave her oldest son a hug. "You're always hungry, dear. We're going to make Italian tonight, we're just discussing school with your sister. She's been accepted into a prestigious private school on a full scholarship."

Jonny looked at Cara with interest. "Really? Cool. So are you gonna go?"

"I want to." Cara showed him the letter. "It sounds really fun."

"The Magical Institute of Canada? Really?" he laughed and waved the letter in the air. "Hey, Tyler! Mac! Come see this!"

"Are you serious about wanting to go?" her mother asked.

"Yes, I am," Cara grumbled. She turned pleadingly back to her parents. "Come on, mother…please?"

"Well," her mother glanced at her father and held his eyes. "We did say that the area school isn't going to be challenging enough for our little girl…"

"You're seriously considering this?" Jonny asked with a snort of disbelief. "Ha, when you come home for the holidays, why don't you show me some of your magic tricks, little sister!" His eyes lit up, and he grinned. "Hey, never mind; go ahead, I'd be glad if you went!"

Their mother glanced suspiciously at him. "What are you planning, Jonny-boy?"

He just laughed and ran out of the kitchen. "Nothing, Mother-dear!" Cara heard him shouting again for Mac and Tyler a few seconds later.

Their father shook his head. "When is that boy going to grow up?" he asked rhetorically.

"So, can I go? Please?" Cara asked again.

Her parents shared a look again. "We'll talk about it," her mother answered. "Right now we have to make dinner, but after we're done cleaning up we'll talk about it."

Cara brightened. "Thank you! Oh, thank you thank you thank you!" She hugged them both and dashed out of the kitchen. But instead of going outside or up to her room, she sat in the lounge and listened to her parents' conversation while pretending to be absorbed in a novel. Some would call it eavesdropping; she called it "doing what's necessary to get all the information."

"Henry…it does seem to be doing her good, already," her mother said. "But…"

"Yes. There is the obvious issue." Her father paused, and then sighed. "But could one year hurt? Or even one semester? She does have magic; that is apparent. If she doesn't gain control of her powers, she could cause a catastrophe."

"Like Peter did, all those years ago?" Her mother sounded bitter. "Sirius is the one who paid for that, when he tried to stop Peter. And Peter _did_ have control over his powers."

Who was Sirius, and who was Peter, and how did her parents know them? How did they know about magic? Cara frowned. How had her parents managed to keep this hidden for the eight years she could remember living with them? More importantly, _why_ had they kept it hidden?

Did Sirius and Peter have something to do with _her?_

_No,_ she decided immediately. _They couldn't._ Her parents had never lied to her, unless withholding truth like this counted as a lie, and perhaps they had only kept it hidden because it wasn't their secret to tell. She knew they did not appreciate dishonesty of any kind.

"He was working with the Death Eaters, and their dark lord himself. It was only to be expected. And the boy made sure that he will not rise again." Her father sounded more resolved. "Let's just see if she likes it after a year there."

"We don't know that for sure," her mother said, and it sounded like an old argument. "But…okay. One year. That's all I will agree to."

Their conversation flowed smoothly into cooking talk, and Cara put the book away before going up to her room. If she was going to go to the MIC, she needed to research it and prepare herself for what she needed to learn. She also needed to make sure she was caught up in regular learning, if it wasn't offered at the magic school, so she could go to university when she graduated from MIC—or whatever school she went to after MIC. However, she had barely gotten her laptop started up and 'the magical institute of canada' typed into the search engine before they called everyone in to wash up for dinner.

Dinner was loud and long, typical of the O'Brien household, and delicious with Italian-seasoned pasta—"linguini," her father informed her—and meat sautéed with vegetables. As always, Cara drank chocolate milk, Mac drank fruit juice, and both Tyler and Jonny drank white milk. Their parents drank some sort of wine.

Afterwards, Cara helped with the clean-up, even though it was Tyler's turn to help, just so she could hear the final verdict more quickly. "So, have you decided?"

"Decided on what?" Tyler asked, glancing between her and their parents. "What's going on?"

"I was accepted to a special private school, on _full scholarship_, so everything's paid for," Cara explained.

"What, Jonny was actually telling the truth? That letter wasn't a joke?"

Cara shook her head, but before she could say anything more, her parents exchanged a look and her mother began to speak. "We've talked about it, and…"

"Yes, you can go," her father finished. "But just this first year. If you like it and want to go back next year, we'll have to talk about it again."

"Yes! Thank you so much!" Cara grinned. She made sure to clean especially well, as she knew this would make her mother happy. Her father smiled privately at her attempt to ingratiate herself to her mother.

She raced up to her room as soon as she was done and moved the mouse around to wake up her laptop when she reached her room.

There weren't any results. Not that she'd really expected any—a _real_ magical school wouldn't want to leave any traces, just in case the government got interested.

She searched 'MIC canada' then and came up with a lot of results, most of them unrelated. After wading through a lot of sites dedicated to various things, none of which had anything to do with magic, she saw something that looked very suspiciously like a cover: the Mental Institute of Canada. The website showed pictures of a foreboding, dreary brick building surrounded by acres of wildland, along with pictures of a bronze statue with the inscription "Lord Gregory Carver: Founder, 1855-1908."

There were several pages describing the history of the institute, including highlights of a few cases that recovered and were sent back into normal human lives. She opened another tab and searched the names listed—none of them could be found, except with regards to the 'mental institute' website.

There was also a link with contact information, including a mailing address—not the Institute's actual address, only a PO Box in a remote town in the northern Rockies. She searched Google Maps for the town and turned it to satellite mode, then looked around the town.

There was nothing.

She frowned, then wondered if the MIC used illusions to hide its true nature from the normal world. It was entirely possible; if magic really existed, who knew what its limits were?

"Lights out, Cara, it's bedtime," her father said good-naturedly, peering through her door. "Come on, love, put up your computer. Tomorrow's another day."

"Yes, yes. Just one more thing…it'll only take a minute." She typed into the search engine: _"Gringotts Canada."_

It was a bank. She turned to her father. "Father, can I go to Gringotts tomorrow? There's a website here. It says there's a branch just downtown Vancouver…it's right off a Skytrain stop." They all had a pass that allowed them to go on any bus or skytrain as long as they paid a monthly fee.

He sighed. "Very well. But I will go with you."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," she promised him. Then she switched off her laptop and climbed into bed. He tucked her in, hummed a lullaby, and then turned off the lights when he left the room.

Cara smiled up at the glowing stars on the ceiling.

"Tomorrow, I'm going to find out what magic is," she whispered up at them, as if they could hear. "Tomorrow, I'm going to…"

But the stars never heard what else she was going to do, for just then she fell asleep.

In the morning she was the first awake and dressed. She brushed her teeth as fast as she could while still getting the sleep out of her eyes and slid down the bannister of the spiral staircase, as she had done only once before. She managed not to fall off until the end, when she landed with a bump on the floor in the sitting room. Their robot was whirring around the sitting room dusting and straightening. It greeted her with a recorded message from her mother, as it always did: "Hello, Cara dear." As it was already completing a task assigned to it, it did not ask if she wanted it to do anything for her.

She ignored it and dashed into the kitchen to make the only breakfast she knew how to make—scrambled eggs and crispy bacon. While the bacon sizzled and the eggs turned yellow she pulled out the orange juice and poured a cup for her father, her mother, and herself. Her brothers would have milk, as they always did.

By the time the others had woken up and wandered down to the kitchen, the table was set and all the food was on it, steam rising from the covered plates of eggs and bacon. As soon as her father finished eating, Cara ran to the door, grinning eagerly in anticipation as she pulled on the raincoat.

"Do you have the letter? You might need it to show the banker," her father cautioned. Cara produced it from the small backpack she had emptied just for this and held it up for his inspection.

"Is this good enough, father? Come on, let's go, time's wasting," she demanded, putting it back.

He laughed and saluted her. "Yes, sir, I'm ready if you are, sir!" She scowled at him, then relented and laughed with him.

They walked to the closest bus stop and waited there for the bus, sitting under the shelter to hide from the soft rain. Before five minutes had passed, the bus arrived, and they got on with relief; the rain had picked up and the wind was driving it into the shelter. The bus was warm and dry, although the seat Cara chose smelled like old sweat. Her father remained standing.

"Which Skytrain stop is it off of?" he asked her.

She took out her notebook and flipped through it until she found the instructions she'd written down. "Umm…Vancouver City Centre."

"Ah, ok. Then we'll catch the Canada Line from King Edward, yeah? that's not too far away, we'll only have to change buses once."

Cara frowned. "I do wish the transportation system wasn't so _complicated._"

"Yeah, right?" her father nodded, agreeing with her.

It took them twenty minutes to get to the Skytrain, and then another twenty-five minutes to get to the Vancouver City Centre. According to the instructions Cara had written down, Gringotts Canada, Vancouver Branch, Ltd. was in between 219 and 221 Seymour. Its address was listed as 219 ½ Seymour St, but that would be impossible. _It must be 220, just on the wrong side of the road,_ Cara thought.

But when they walked down Seymour St to 219 and 221, there was a grand building right in between two factories, with men and women in varying clothes—mostly black robes—going up and down the marble steps regularly. Words were inscribed in the arch overhanging the wide glass revolving doors; they were in an ornate script that Cara couldn't read. But then the words reformed in her mind, and read: _"All ye who enter beware, Gringotts is a goblin lair, no thieves may enter here, take only what is yours, or walk forever the maze of traps that await." _The words didn't rhyme, but in another language they might, she supposed.

"What are you looking at? There's nothing here," her father said, and when she turned to look at him she saw that he was speaking the truth. He really couldn't see it.

"Just follow me, please," she said, and went up the steps. As soon as her father took the first step, he stopped short, gaping.

"This wasn't here before," he said, glancing around the ornate building, quite bewildered.

"Come on, father, you're making a scene," she said, and glanced around again; the robed men and women had slowed down and were all looking at the two of them as they passed. "Let's just go in and get the money and maybe ask someone where I can get the supplies I need."

"All—all right," her father managed, and followed her inside, looking around like a lost tourist in Gastown. Cara had never been a take-charge person, but today, she was determined to get what she needed.

She walked up to the front desk, her father trailing behind. Behind the desk was a little grey-green man that looked like a very small elf, wearing a sharp grey suit. He looked at her as if she were a bug when she approached, and immediately she felt as if she had done something wrong.

"Yes, can I help you?"

"I…I got this in the mail," she fumbled in her backpack for a moment before withdrawing the letter. "It says I have a scholarship fund here that I can access."

"Ah. Your name?" The ugly man pulled out a long piece of thick, creamy paper with a list written in the same ornate script on it.

"Cara O'Brien."

He scanned the list and apparently found her name, for he dipped a quill in an inkpot and made a careful 'X' next to it. "Cara O'Brien, in trust to Henry O'Brien and Rose Thompson-O'Brien. Are either of them here today?"

"Yes, that's me," Cara's father said, sounding much more confident than Cara felt. He was the classic businessman, with feathers of white in his reddish-brown hair. "I am her adopted father and legal guardian. Her adopted mother, and other legal guardian, could not be here today."

The ugly man gave him the once-over as dismissively as he had Cara, and turned back to her. "Let me see the letter," he demanded, and she handed it over meekly. He glanced it over, muttered a word that caused the seal in the bottom corner to flare, and handed it back. "It's legitimate. Grango!" he said suddenly, loudly, turning in place and addressing another short, ugly, grey-green man, this one in a dark blue suit. "Take them to sub-section MIC, vault 3471."

Grango bowed slightly. "Of course, sir." He beckoned Cara and her father to follow, then hurried over to the grand elevator in the middle of a grand archway. Once the three of them were inside and the door closed, he entered a code into the keypad and pressed his hand into a black box next to it. A blue light flashed in the box and a feminine voice said over an intercom,

"Cleared for entry."

A panel slid up on the back of the elevator and Cara and her father shared an astonished look. Grango hurried over to it and typed something in a language that looked totally unfamiliar. Another black box slid out of the wall.

"Cara O'Brien, please put your hand in the box," he said, and Cara did so hesitantly. She hoped it wasn't going to eat her hand. The light flashed blue after she placed her hand on a smooth flat surface in the box and the same female voice repeated the earlier message. She withdrew her hand and examined it; nothing had happened to it, as far as she could tell.

"Henry O'Brien, please put your hand in the box," Grango said, and her father did the same thing. Again, the blue light flashed and the female voice said he was cleared for entry.

"Now all you have to do is press your hand here the next time you come and it will take you straight to your vault," Grango informed them. "Of course, it has to be in the presence of a goblin, either myself or Rangripp, the night shift for the MIC sub-section. Just ask Rimgar—he's the goblin at the front desk that you approached today. He will direct you to the one of us that is on duty."

"Ok," Cara said. "Thanks." _Goblins? They're…goblins? It would explain why they look so weird._

"Also, you will need the key to get into your vault. This elevator only gets you there—it doesn't open it." He pulled out a big keyring from one pocket—_how did that big thing fit in such a small pocket?_ Cara wondered—and went through the keys carefully. After a minute or so he took a small key off of it and handed it to her. "Here. Keep it safe." He handed an identical key to her father.

"I will," her father promised.

The goblin pulled down a lever and suddenly the elevator started moving, first sideways, then down with a drop that made Cara's stomach lurch. It stopped going down and moved sideways again, the opposite direction that it had gone the first time. The speed at which it traveled made Cara stumble backwards before she recovered.

"Here we are," Grango announced, and the lever released slowly without him touching it. They came to such an abrupt stop that Cara almost fell over, and even her father had to grab onto the bar. "Get what you need, then we'll be off."

"Um, Mr. Grango sir, what _do_ I need? I mean, no one explained anything. Where do I go to get my supplies for MIC? And how much does everything cost? What sort of money am I supposed to use, Canadian dollars or what?" Cara ventured timidly.

"They didn't send anyone to explain things? Odd, you have Muggle guardians. I suggest you choose the optional Galleometer—it's a new invention, which will allow you to control exactly what is in your account and withdraw your money with ease without having to come in. Once it has been personalized to you, only you will be able to access your account on it; not even someone who has become you using Polyjuice Potion will work, as it is keyed to your magical core, which cannot be altered. When we return I will call the local MIC representative to come and help you." The goblin pressed a button near the door and it slid open to reveal a giant wooden door with bars across it. An access box and a small keyhole were in the stone wall next to the door. "Go on then, put your hand in the box and insert the key at the same time. Make sure to press your thumb down."

Cara carefully placed her hand inside the box, but before she let it touch the screen, she took out the key and put it in the keyhole. She pressed her left thumb on the screen and turned the key with her right hand at the same time.

"Welcome, Cara O'Brien," the female voice said, and the vault door swung open.


	4. THREE: In Which Cara Gets Her Wand

_In Memoriam: Jonathan Brett, June 1994-May 18 2012_

**CARA O'BRIEN AND THE TALKING LYNX**

_An OC NextGen Fic  
><em>

_Written by LeeRowan (justcallmelee)_

_Are you in earnest? Seize this very minute! Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. Only engage, and then the mind grows heated. Begin, and then the work will be completed. - Jean Anouilh_

_Imagination is the true magic carpet. - Norman Vincent Peale  
><em>

The Harry Potter universe is © J. K. Rowling [and publisher(s)]. LeeRowan is not making profit from this work and does not intend to. Ei* takes credit only for names and places not mentioned in Harry Potter or Pottermore.

Note: LeeRowan currently seeks a beta reader. Once a beta is acquired, early chapters will be reposted with corrections, and further chapters will be updated on a regular schedule (yet to be determined).

LeeRowan thanks anyone reading this story and would like feedback but does not require it. If you have any questions, you can contact LeeRowan through eir website, which is listed on eir profile, or through the 'review' function of FFn, or through the 'PM' function of FFn.

ANY AND ALL ADDRESSES MENTIONED IN THIS STORY ARE MADE UP. Do not go to those addresses and ask for the people mentioned, because if they do exist, it is mere coincidence.

* * *

><p><strong><em>THREE: IN WHICH CARA IS (OFFICIALLY) A WITCH<br>Or: In Which Cara Gets Her Wand  
><em>**

Small piles of gold, silver, and bronze coins covered the floor of the half-bath-sized vault. Cara and her father could only stare in amazement.

"How…how much, exactly, is in this account? A scholarship, at least not one I've heard of, doesn't provide_ this_ much, eh?" Cara's father was the first to speak, addressing the goblin who had accompanied them. His eyes were still glued to the piles of gold coins.

"The scholarship provided by the Magical Institute of Canada for students with Muggle parents should cover all seven years' schooling, as I understand it," Grango informed them. "Five hundred and fifty Galleons—" he pointed towards the heaps of gold coins "—two hundred Sickles—" the silver coins "—and sixty Knuts." The bronze coins.

"I think I would like that Gall-gally-galleometer thing you mentioned," Cara said faintly, overwhelmed. She had never seen so much gold in her entire life, and had only a vague idea of how much it was worth in CAD (far more than her father made in a year, she was sure). "How much is each coin worth, in terms of the others?"

"Thirty Knuts to a Sickle, seventeen Sickles to a Galleon, and one Galleon is worth 13.76 Canadian dollars," Grango listed. "The Galleon's worth has gone down recently, as more and more Muggle-born witches and wizards have invested their gold into Gringotts. It used to be ten Sickles to a Galleon, twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle, 18.6 CAD to a Galleon." He did something complicated to the black box outside of the vault, then removed it and offered it—now inverted—to Cara. She took it and examined it closely.

"It looks like a tablet," her father observed, "except…how does it work? Does it run on magic or on electricity?" Her father had been an engineer before he began his own business and so always wanted to know how things worked. Cara had the same curiosity, although not to the same extent.

"Both; electricity does not always work when magic is present, but when alternate currents are used it does," Grango replied. "Touch the screen—it has already memorized your unique magical imprint. Since this is a scholarship account, it is not possible to add your father to the List of Access, but any other account you open with Gringotts you may allow him access to."

Cara touched the screen and it lit up. "WELCOME CARA O'BRIEN" streamed across the top in big, bold letters. Then the screen cleared and reformed into an "OPTIONS" menu. She selected "VIEW ACCOUNT." The words projected in a 3D image above the tablet:

ACCOUNT DETAILS: ACCOUNT NO. MICSCHOLAR3471

CURRENT AMOUNT: 550G, 200S, 60K

ACCESS AVAILABLE ONLY TO CARA O'BRIEN AND GUARDIANS

"It says my guardians have access," Cara said. "That's my parents, right?"

"I am your legal guardian, as is your mother," her father affirmed.

"Interesting," Grango said. "Usually, scholarship accounts do not allow the non-magical parents access."

"It could be because we already had knowledge of the wizarding world," her father offered. "We knew the Potters before they died. Also, we are not her birth parents, we adopted her when she was very young."

Grango turned his pale eyes on Cara, considering. "That's even more interesting," he murmured. Something attached to his belt flashed, and he glanced at it. _A beeper? But those are ancient, why would goblins use them?_ Cara wondered. _And didn't he say that electricity doesn't work around magic except with alternate currents?_ "The representative from the Magical Institute of Canada has arrived."

When they reached the surface, Grango directed them towards a tall, skinny man with silver-streaked hair wearing what looked like a black bathrobe and a pointy black hat, the kind children wore to Halloween, pretending to be witches. On closer inspection, she saw that the robe was not a bathrobe.

"I am the Deputy-Headmaster Harlequin Tate," he said when they approached. "I am assuming that you are Cara O'Brien and this is your guardian/parental figure Henry O'Brien."

"That is a correct assumption," her father said. "Nice to meet you, Deputy-Headmaster." He offered his hand to shake. The Deputy-Headmaster stared at it until it dropped awkwardly back to her father's side.

"Come with me," Tate said, and then turned and walked outside. Cara and her father hurried to catch up.

The Deputy-Headmaster stopped abruptly at the foot of the steps and frowned peculiarly at her father's presence. "I'm afraid that Muggles—nonmagicals—are not allowed in Sortiarius Alley. You may wait here, if you wish, but we will most likely be gone for the remainder of the day."

Her father frowned, and sighed, then shrugged agreeably. "I do need to stop in at Canadian Tire for a few things. Do you have a way of getting her home? Of course you do, you're a wizard," he amended himself. "I hope it's not a flying motorcycle." He leaned down and gave Cara a hug, which she returned warmly. "Behave, Care-Bear," he whispered in her ear, embarrassing her with the childish nickname she had grown out of _years_ ago when she was 8. "I love you."

"Love you too, father," she murmured in reply, and stepped back. "But hogweed doesn't remove itself, you know."

"If we are _quite_ done," Deputy-Headmaster Tate said, rather impatiently, "We have a lot of ground to cover."

"Yes, Deputy-Headmaster," Cara said, turning away from her father, who stifled laughter. In her peripheral vision she saw him head towards the Skytrain station.

"Just Professor will do. Come." They started off at a reasonable walking pace in the direction of Gastown. Cara, who had been to Gastown several times previously, couldn't remember anything remotely wizardly, although she supposed it possible that magic disguised a lot of things. Within fifteen minutes, somehow, even though Cara had thought Gastown a lot further away, they arrived in the oldest corner of Vancouver.

Even though it was midday, Cara could hear raucous sounds from a nearby pub, which to her consternation Professor Tate walked towards. The Lamplighter Pub, on the corner of Abbott Street and Water Street, did not seem a very magical place, or one that someone her age should approach.

"Professor?" she braved herself to ask, making sure to stay right by his side, despite the fact that they were heading into a bar—which, Cara could now see, was right next to a seedy-looking nightclub. _At least it's daytime_, she thought, and for once wished it was bright and sunny instead of rainy.

"Yes, Ms. O'Brien?"

"Where are we going?"

"Sortiarius Alley, of course," Professor Tate said, sounding surprised. "I believe I said that."

"Well…yes," Cara said, then hurried to explain herself as they entered the pub and walked towards the bar. "But I didn't think…a bar…" In her anxiety, words failed her.

"Ah, of course." Tate smiled down at her with the first hint of warmth she'd seen, although she thought he looked mostly amused. "It is hidden to Muggles, but their technology is becoming increasingly hard to fool—especially satellite and GPS imaging. Sortiarius Alley moved underground five years ago. This is one of the entry points."

They passed the bar; Tate nodded courteously and exchanged brief pleasantries with the bartender, who acted like it was perfectly normal for them to walk into the wine cellar. A rack of expensive wine covered the back wall; Cara knew her father, a wine aficionado, would not believe her when she told him about it. Tate reached for a '58 Chardonnay and pulled it.

To Cara's shock, an entire section of the back swung away, revealing a solid brick wall. She glanced between the wall and Tate, who pulled out a thin, gnarled stick. "What—" she began, but did not finish, for the stick tapped four times on the bricks.

The brick wall hollowed out into a hole, and dilated and expanded into a huge archway, which allowed them about a metre of space before paired wooden doors. Tate turned and pulled the wine rack back into place: when it clicked, the bricks shivered back into place.

Cara blinked and found herself speechless, even though her mouth gaped open. She worked her jaw a few times, opening and closing it like a fish, as the wooden doors swung open seemingly of their own volition to reveal the wizarding world.

The first thing she noticed was that, despite Tate saying it was underground, she could clearly see the cloudy sky above them. It wasn't raining, although it had been moments prior. But before she could ask about it, her attention was diverted by the long rows of jumbled shops with signs advertising "CAULDRONS! GET 'EM WHILE THEY'RE HOT!" and "LIGHTNING BOLT 2.0—ON SALE" and items like Dragon Wart Remover ("Treats even the worst cases!")

Cara blinked, swallowed, and blinked again, then followed Tate into the magical marketplace. He set a brisk pace, not leaving her time to read all the signs—of which there were many—or to gawk at all the items being hawked.

She saw, despite Tate's efforts to keep her moving forward, many things that she promised herself she would buy and many shops that she would browse: foremost among them, the store whose sign boasted (accompanied by the moving image of a young Asian guy winking and grinning) "Magic Meets Technology!"

"Where are we going?" she asked, after they had weaved through a confusing maze of alleyways between and around shops for several minutes and she had become thoroughly lost.

"First, we are off to get your wand. That is the number one thing every witch and wizard should have." He made an abrupt right turn and they stopped in front of a large store that somehow managed to look quaint. The sign above the automatic sliding doors read "White's Wands" in faded gold paint. Tate turned to her suddenly. "How much did you withdraw?"

"I didn't." Cara pulled out the Galleometer and pressed her thumb to the screen. Instantly a projection rose: 3D numbers that showed her account contents. "550 Galleons, 200 Sickles, and 60 Knuts. That's how much I have in my account." She selected 'EXIT' and the Galleometer became inert once more; she placed it back in her bookbag.

"That will be enough to last you all seven years, if you spend wisely," Tate observed. "Buying supplies as well as enjoying your stay at Mick." Tate waved a hand in front of a small white box and the doors slid open; Cara followed him inside.

Cara had no time to observe the orderly inside of the shop before an exceedingly optimistic old man who looked at least part native accosted them with a brilliant smile. He wore a robe similar to Tate's, with multiple patches on the elbows and knees. A nametag floating in a somewhat fixed position on his chest read 'Belquire White.'

"May I help you?" He didn't give either of them a chance to respond, his gaze zeroing in on the gnarled stick Tate still held; Cara had deduced it to be a wand. "Ah, I remember this one. Ten inches, cedar and veela hair. So it's this one we'll be getting a wand for, eh?" His focus switched to Cara without any warning, and she flinched. "A Mick student, I take it. First year, no doubt."

"Pleasure to see you again, Mr. White. This is Cara O'Brien. She's muggleborn, but her parents knew the Potters; I believe she came from the UK. The special case—you know the one," Tate leaned close to the wandmaker to whisper confidentially, not knowing Cara could hear every word.

Belquire White closed one eye in an extended wink and nodded sagely. "Oh, I know the one. I've had it set aside for this day. Although…I would like to try others, first. Brittle wood is not the best choice for a first-year student, especially not paired with dragon heartstring. So! Please, sit. I will bring out the first choice shortly. And Mr. Tate, if I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times: _please_, call me Belquire." He pronounced it bell-choir.

With that, the old man hurried away, disappearing into the aisles. Cara looked at Tate with a frown. "'Came from the UK'?" she repeated, raising an eyebrow. "I've always lived in Canada. My parents adopted me here, Professor."

The Deputy-Headmaster's eyebrows shot up in considerable surprise. "You heard that, did you? Have you always been able to hear things you shouldn't?"

Cara considered it for a moment, then shook her head. "No, it started a few years ago. I don't remember exactly when, though. I think it was gradual."

"That must have been your magic awakening," Professor Tate observed. "Have there been any other unusual occurrences?"

Cara told him about the fire in the empty fireplace and the exploding sink and the lynx that followed her home. "He refused to go, and then he talked to me. In my mind," she clarified when Tate stared at her.

"Incredible, must be at least part-Kneazle," he said under his breath, then louder, said "You have great potential, Ms. O'Brien."

Belquire reappeared with a stack of six thin, plain white boxes balanced precariously on his arms. He set them down carefully on the small wooden table next to the blue chair Cara occupied. "Hello again, Mr. Tate and Miss Cara." He smiled at her with a flash of pearly teeth as he carefully opened the first box. He held up the wand within as he continued to speak. "Ebony and unicorn hair, 10 ½ inches. Ebony doesn't grow here—I imported the wood from New Guinea. Go on, try it."

She took the proffered wand cautiously and held it as if it would bite. She glanced between the two wizards, who both looked at her intently.

"Don't be afraid of it, it isn't likely to explode," Belquire encouraged. "Grip it firmly. Wave it around. Try to make something happen."

_Isn't _likely _to explode? Wands _explode? Mustering up her courage, she firmed her grip on the smooth ebony and flicked it with a flourish.

Nothing happened.

Belquire's face fell slightly. "Not ebony and unicorn, then. Hmm." He took back the wand, put it away, and set aside its box. "Try…_this_ one, then." He selected the third box from the top and opened it. "12 inches, acacia and unicorn hair."

That one, nor any of the rest he'd picked out ("Rowan and dragon heartstring, 10 inches"; "fir and unicorn hair, 11 inches"; "hawthorn and phoenix feather, 10 ½ inches"; "beech and dragon heartstring, 11 ½ inches") did not respond to her; except for the hawthorn and phoenix feather, which burned her hand in its haste to get away from her.

Tate gazed solemnly at Belquire. "We will have to try the one that came from England, Mr. White. It appears your choices do not agree with her."

Belquire scowled, something Cara did not expect; the deep frown seemed out of place on his face. He didn't even correct Tate on his name, as he had at least four times already. "I have a few others in the back room that she must try, first." He collected the stack of boxes and left.

Cara, reminded by the mention of the wand from England, narrowed her eyes. "You haven't distracted me, Professor Tate—I am not from England. My father is from Dublin, my mother from London, but they adopted me _here_. I was born in Canada."

Tate studied her. "Sometimes, the past must remain the past." He did not say anything else, and Cara was not quite brave enough to push further. She resolved silently to get to the bottom of it—she could not stand questions that went unanswered because of her youth. That was why she had discovered how babies were made at the age of seven.

Belquire came back carrying two blood red boxes. "Lo and behold, the thestral-hair wands," he proclaimed. "The best of the best, made by yours truly. Months of work went into each of them. First: red oak." He set the two boxes down and opened one. He lifted the gleaming wand as if it was the greatest treasure on Earth, but Cara paid no attention. The unopened box called to her more strongly than anything else ever had. Her heartbeat increased dramatically.

"14 inches, red oak and thestral tail hair. Try it," Belquire encouraged. With half a mind, she took it, not noticing the sparks it produced when she twitched it, nor the surprised noises from Tate and Belquire as she handed it back.

"It's not mine," she heard herself say. "It's beautiful but it's not mine."

"Very well then—" after a brief pause "—try this one. Willow and thestral hair, one of my finest, nicely swishy, not brittle at all. 12 ½ inches."

She took the whip-like length of wood, fireworks exploded, and she knew she was home.

"This is what I've been missing, my whole life," she whispered, as magic surged like ice in her veins, more power than she'd ever imagined. She turned to Belquire. "I'll take it."

"That will be 15 Galleons," the wandmaker said agreeably. He gathered up the two red boxes. "I assume you don't want the box."

"No," she said automatically, still focused on the wand—_her_ wand—as it rained multicolored sparks that vanished before they hit the ground. "I'm not going to let it go."

"I've never seen a wand—_especially_ a willow—react so strongly," Tate observed dryly. "You'll have to actually _master_ it, Ms. O'Brien, and get its reaction under control. We don't want to draw any undue attention."

"Yes, of course," Cara murmured. A silent command traveled from her to her wand, and the sparks subsided into nothing. _There you go, my pretty,_ she thought, _settle down nicely._ She paused mentally. _ I'm turning into Gollum._

Some haggling—by Tate—and thirteen Galleons, fifteen Sickles later, the two walked out of White's Wands. Cara stowed her wand carefully in her pocket, not letting go.

"Where to now?"

"Now, we are going to get you fitted for robes. Even with your wand away—or perhaps especially, your Muggle clothes are drawing attention."


End file.
